
Book -^Cr 5 7 - 



ODES 



FUGITIVE POETRY 



BY T H E 

REV. ANTHONY GANILH. 



BOSTON : 

PRINTED BY WILLIAM SMITH. 



1830. 



ODES 



FUGITIVE POETRY. 



BY THE 

REV. ANTHONY GANILH. 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY WILLIAM SMITH. 

1830. 



'Y^ V]'^^ 

m 



THE MISSISSIPPI.— AN ODE. 



^ 



'Midst distant, tow'ring mountains, lost; 
I wander'd through the realms of frost, 
And trod the pathless snow; 
While the keen northern blast 
With horrid sound did low 
Over the dreary waste: 
Benumb'd, and with fatigue opprest 
I wish'd t' enjoy a fatal rest. 

II. 

But when I heard the torrent roar, 
I hied me to its craggy shore. 
The waves from high rocks hurl'd 
Thunder'd in foaming sheets. 
Or, in vast eddies whirl'd, 
Scoop'd swift their inmost seats; 
It was the young Mechassabea, 
Which thus fought its way to the sea. 



[ 4 ] 



m. 

Then, gladden'd by hope's fairy beam, 

I loudly hail'd the noble stream 

And, following its flood. 

In its proud swelling course. 

Through prairie and dark wood. 

Where'er it tries its force; 

I enter'd soon that smiling plain. 

Which heaven spread for its domain. 

IV. 

There, what strange, lofty forms I view'd 

Which, tranquil, pac'd the solitude! 

The Elk its antlers wav'd 

Fearless of deadly tools. 

Its mane the Bison lav'd 

In solitary pools. 

The Panther and the grissly Bear 

In ambush lay for th' harmless Deer. 

V. 

Degraded man I chiefly spied, 

Lo! to conceal himself, he tried: 

He shunn'd my friendly look. 

And, at a brother's glance 

With conscious fear he shook. 

As if in mortal trance. 

I wish'd to speak as I pass'd by. 

— He yell'd and fled when I drew nigh. 



[ 5 ] 



VI. 

The rolling waves in a short time, 

Wafted me to a happier clime. 

I saw a brother smile, 

From dread, or treachery free, 

And fear'd no more the guile 

Which lurk'd behind each tree. 

Civilization now appear'd, 

By peace and ev'ry art endear'd. 

VII. 

On either bank, before my eyes, 

What richly varied prospects rise! 

Here, an industrious band 

Carrols a morning lay 

Over the furrow'd land. 

There, with pacific sway, 

The Shepherd guides his gentle flock, 

And, jocund, dreams of thriving stock. 

VIII. 

Behold afar the lofty spire! 
It cleaves the clouds and braves heav'ns fire, 
Topp'd with steel sharpen'd dart. 
'Tis thy most gifted son 
America, whose art 
For thee that praise has won. 
But hark! the sounds of yon' church bell, 
The sacred joys of Sabbath tell. 
1* 



[ 6 ] 



IX. 

Hail, holy refuge, house of God! 
How oft have I thy pavement trod 
To find a truce to grief; 
Then sweet religion's voice 
Hush'd the remorseless thief, 
And brought back pristine joys. 
Or, soothing my repentant sighs; 
It dried the dim tears in my eyes. 



X. 



Further, what noise assails my ear? 
Louder it grows as I draw near, 
'Tis a town which men build, 
At the foot of those mounts 
Which th' orient sun's rays gild, 
When from the sea he mounts. 
With din and groans resounds the earth, 
As if in travail at its birth. 



XI. 



And now, as I sweep down the stream, 
I hear the fervid hissing steam: 
Elastic and soul-like. 
It animates yon' hulk. 
Whirling oars th' waters strike, 
And drive th' enormous bulk. 
Against the winds, against the tides; 
Which rage in vain t' assault its sides. 



[ 7 ] 



XII. 

Sommerset, in a blissful hour, 
In hollow brass compress'd the pow'r 
That lifts the sullen crank, 
And turns the ponderous wheel; 
But next to him in rank, 
Our Fulton comes to swell 
Columbia's praise. He first of all 
Taught it, in barks, to rise and fall. 

XIII. 

The magic prow I dare to climb, 
And on its deck soon stand sublime. 
While eagle-like I fly; 
The valve uplifted shrieks. 
The smoke obscures the sky. 
The brazen lever creaks. 
And on new lands my troubled eyes 
Begin to gaze with wild surprise. 

XIV. 

Strange crops the earth is taught to own. 
The fields are white with glossy down. 
Here, the rich spicy canes 
Bow to the whispering breeze; 
There, fragrance cheers the swains 
Under gold studded trees; 
Yet the sad moss, in funeral crapes, 
Fevers and plagues from each bough shakes. 



[ 8 ] 



XV. 

Thus, nature with an equal hand 
Metes out ill and good to each land. 
The regions, where proud wealth 
Is heard in revelry, 
Seldom see ruddy health 
Gracing their luxury. 
But we may on, for now is death 
Palsied by frosty winter's breath. 

XVI. 

I swim aloft with pale affright, 

As the land sinks beneath my sight. 

Indignant at its shores. 

Over a tremblino- town, 

The mighty river roars. 

Astonish'd I look down. 

While the dull vessels float on high, 

As if ambitious of the sky. 

XVII. 

At last the boundless plain I see. 

Where the flood, violent and free; 

Its liquid masses pours. 

Farewell, thou king of streams; 

If in my lonely hours, 

Bolder than priest beseems 

I have sung thee, the nation's vital artery; 

My song, at least, was free of fulsome flattery. 



[ 9 ] 



THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



AN ODE FOR MAUNDAY THURSDAY. 



Ye Seraphs, wake your golden lyres, 
And gather your harmonious choirs; 
It is the feast of Shilo's love 
Which now your heav'nly pow'rs must prove. 
On glowing pinions borne, through Ether's ways, 
Wing down your flight, and let melodious lays 
Publish, from pole to pole, from west to east, 
The charity of Christ, th' eternal Priest. 

The paschal banquet is prepar'd 

Which from old time, as was declar'd. 

Was to be kept with mystic rite. 

And Israel to his God unite. 

Bright shine the lamps in Gethsemany's halls, 

With the Messiah's voice resound its walls: 

Exulting, to his God he pays his vows; 

While radiant beams play round his sacred brows. 

His loving Saints around him stand. 

A small, but an heroic band: 

They shall, one day, to men proclaim 

The wonders of his glorious name. 

To them he speaks, and while he lifts on high. 

Up to his Father's throne his kindling eye; 



[ 10 ] 

From Heav'n sweet unction flows, in silent stream, 
To stamp Eternity upon his theme. 

No more shall I my servants call, 
But my true friends most dear of all, 
You, who this day, taste of this food; 
Said the God-man in raptur'd mood. 

Then \>y Jehovah-self inspir'd, 

And with celestial ardors fir'd, 
He blest the paschal bread. 
Presumptuous reason fled, 
And hush'd was nature's pride, 
Which had his pow'r defied. 
He blest the cup likewise, 
While his sad melting eyes 
Invok'd the pow'r above. 
He wept — it was through love! 
He wept — his spotless heart 
Of treason felt the smart. 

The conscious traitor, scowling, sat aside, 
And his fell purpose strove in vain to hide. 

A Saviour sold, 

'For paltry gold, 

Cous'd his despair 

And bitter care. 

Grace he forsook. 

His lurid look 

Reveals his shame. 

And stamps the blame. 

A sullen tear 

Betrays his fear, 



[ n ] 

While pangs unknown 

Become his own. 

The fiends fi-om hell, 

Hissing his knell, 

Around him fly. 

With blood red eye, 

They ask their prey, 

And whisper it away. 

— Thou art our's; do they say: 

Iscariot haste away. 

Now while he goes, through nightly gloom, 
To fill, by deeds of blood, his doom. 
Again your softest measures bring. 
Angelic host, and sweetly sing 
Christ's tender joys. Lo! on his virgin breast, 
One well belov'd reclines his head to rest. 
It is his friend, he who shall faithful prove, 
When cruel fear shall the most zealous move. 

Hail, friendship, hail! Thou sacred fire, 
Worthy my Saviour's soul t' inspire. 
Thou passion pure and stainless flame, 
Which fallen men know but by name. 
Sole earthly pleasure which he chose to feel; 
Allow me at thy blissful shrine to kneel. 
And grant me thy celestial worth to scan; 
For thou didst make a God the friend of man. 



[ 12 ] 



THE DSATH OF CHRIST. 



AN ODE FOR GOOD-FRIDAY. 



Why does fair Zion weep 
And mourn with ceaseless cry? 
Oh, why that grief so deep 
And that sad tearful eye? 
In times of yore she sat a mighty queen, 
Her numerous children from afar were seen 
With costly gifts and tribute of sweet praise; 
Thronging her smiling ways. 

Now neither precious gifts 
Of pearls of orient hue, 
Nor gold from Sheba's clifts. 
Nor hymen's fragrant dew; 
Do come to dry the flood of her dim tears. 
Nor come enchanting lays to soothe her ears. 
In bitter widowhood she shall remain 
For her Messiah slain. 

She saw the holy one 
Basely sold and betray'd. — 
— In deepest woe, alone, 
He call'd in vain for aid; 
To judgment led by a ferocious throng, 
He was accus'd by ev'ry lying tongue 
And sinful hands his virgin body tore, 
With rage unknown before. 



[ 13 ] 

His bleeding mangled form 

Through cruel pity shown, 

Could not appease the storm, 

By hellish malice blown. 
— Condemn'd and cast away, the Lamb of God, 
With tott'ring steps and sinking strength, has trod 
The road to Golgotha, where ghastly death 

Awaits his fainting breath. 

On th' ignominious wood 

He meekly has lain down, 

To shed his sacred blood 

A ransom for his own. 
Now lifted up against the ruthless skies, 
His voice is heard in deprecating cries. 
E'en to his foes he has spread forth his hands 

To soothe their wicked bands. 

In bitter agony. 

He pours heart-rending groans. 

The blessed mother, nigh 

Mingles with them her moans. 
Her grief, immense! ineffable her loss! 
— Sinking o'erwhelm'd before the bloody cross, 
His cruel pangs, in vain, she doth deplore. 

Besprinkled with his gore. 

Th' atoning sacrifice, 
For mankind must be made. 
And no less could suffice 
To have their ransom paid. 

Earth sees the Saviour die. 

Convuls'd by his last sigh, 



[ 14 ] 

It reels in horrid throes 

And strikes with dread his foes. 

The lofty mountains shake, 

The dead their graves forsake; 

Lo! wailing they appear, 

To force a rebel tear, 

From those malignant eyes 

Which did laugh at his cries. 
The sun, in pale affright 

Withdraws its trembling light. 

And seems t' announce the doom 

Of a perpetual gloom. 

Rocks from each nodding clift. 

Tumble down rolling swift; 

By the Supreme pow'r hurl'd, 

As if to crush the world. 
While Nature mourns for Jesus slain, 
The temple's veil is rent in twain; 
Rejected priests, with troubled heart 
Hear Adonai from thence depart, 
And Deicide Jerusalem 
No longer is that precious gem. 
Which all the world with awe admir'd. 
■ — 'Tis but the blasted place where Christ expir'd. 



THE SAIITTS' REST. 

A HYMJV. 
To Saints above, lift up your lays, 
Come, and look on the glorious band, 
Their brethren ye, sing forth their praise, 
As ye journey to Canan's land. 



[ 15 ] 

Conquering, they ran their mighty race, 
Hating the world's deceiving charms, 
They now enjoy mild heav'nly peace, 
And sweetly rest in Jesus' arms. 

Ferocious threats and torments dire, 
With tyrants' wrath, for him they bore. 
On cruel racks — in blazing fire, 
They shed a stream of purple gore. 

Meek victims of the Lamb divine. 
Without complaint they meet their fate. 
And to his will their life resign; 
Dying free from revenge, or hate. 

Glory to Him that crowns their deeds, 
Father of lights who reigns above; 
And to the Lamb who ever bleeds, 
And Paraclete the source of Love. 



ALL HALLO-WS' NIGHT. 

AJV ODE. 

'Twas on the eve of all souls' mournful day, 

When, warned by sacred sounds, the graveyard's clay 

At midnight's solemn hour, yawns o'er each tomb. 

Then rise the skeletons impell'd by doom. 

They wrap themselves in their cold sheets. 

And in long rows, with funeral pace; 

Stalk through the solitary streets. 

Their former scenes of life to trace. 



[ 16 ] 

Their fleshless rattling feet sound on the stones. 
Their hands, for tapers, grasp sweet infants' bonesj 
From whence faint rays of dismal blueish light 
New horrors shed on the gloom of the night. 
Their sockets deep reflect the glare. 
— Their wand'ring steps it seems to guide. 
The prowling beasts from far they scare; 
Whilst howling winds spell-bound subside. 

By dire necessity a widow prest 

Had, till that hour, postpon'd her time of rest. 

— Her orphans slept unconscious in their bed, 

While her hand plied the wheel to give them bread. 

Often she turn'd her eyes around 

To see her babies sleep; but sigh'd, 

Because an empty place she found. 

— Her cherub girl had lately died. 

Meanwhile, the ghosts pass by. Death's chilling damp 

Spreading all round, puts out her well trimm'd lamp. 

In wonder lost, she sees their glimm'ring light; 

But as her spotless soul knows no aifright, 

She sallies forth to beg some fire, 

And by his shroud, she plucks th' hindmost. 

Woman, what is it you desire ? 

Demands with mournful voice the ghost. 

Kind passenger, my lamp is out; she says: 
Lend me your taper, to renew its blaze. 

There, woman, thou hast it; replies the dead: 

While he averts from her his muffled head. 
But bring it back; here, I will wait. 
The fatal torch, quick, to her room, 
She unsuspecting bears and straight, 
Her lighted lamp expels the gloom. 



[ 17 ] 

But woful light and lamentable loan! 
Trembling, she hears a sullen hollow moan, 
And looking round, beholds her late lost child 
With her own blood, fast dripping, all defil'd. 

That torch you hold, it is my arm, 

Mother, ha, mother; th' infant cries: 
Return it quick to break the charm, 
'Tis all souls' night when the dead rise! 

The mother's heart two different passions move. 
Frantic with fear and yet impell'd by love; 
She smites her breast, she shrieks and tries to fly; 
But from her child cannot avert her eye. 
Meanwhile, the ghost calls her without. 
Farewell, farewell, my time is sped; 
Says he, with a heart-i ending shout: 
I must again to my cold bed. 

She runs, but finds it is, alas, too late. 
Rul'd by the will of unrelenting fate, 
The wailing skeleton to his tomb glides. 
In vain she follows him with tott'ring strides, 
Begging him to resume his gift. 
Regardless of a mother's calls, 
He flies off, like those vapours swifl:. 
Which nightly dance in merry balls. 

With weary feet and long drawn breath, 
Trembling, she enters the abode of death. 
To lay on her child's tomb the fatal bone; 
When a stern voice, with deep sepulchral to»e, 
Tells her: thy grave is ready made, 
No one who dares, this night, invade 
5* 



[ 18 ] 

Our sad and dark domain, 

Can see the light again. 

Put off thy mortal coil 

And sink in hallow'd soil, 

With us to sleep 

In darkness deep. 

The mother hears 

And frighten'd shrieks, 

While bitter tears 

Bedue her cheeks. 

'Tis not her state 

Which she doth mourn j 

By her sons' fate 

Her heart is torn. 

Their wailing cries 

In her ears rise, 

But she can't leave the fatal ground. 

Her knell hath rung. — At th' awful sound, 

She sinks, with pure maternal love yet fondly warm, 
And the cold, parting earth receives her fainting form. 



THE PREDESTINARIAN'S DITTY. 

The God whom I adore is one 
Who does not fickle passions own. 
From all eternity 
He has by his free will 
Fix'd, with unerring eye. 
The course of good and ill. 
When he bound nature fast in fate, 
Sure, he put man in the same state. 



[ 19 ] 

To praise his name, I mount on high, 
Soaring aloft to th' upper sky, 

I enter his Saints' rest, 

And there, with ravish'd look 

See them forever blest. 

Although no pains they took 
To merit those delightful joys. 
They only were free grace's toys! 

From heav'n I go to lowest deep; 

See, there, how many wretches weep! 
It was not for their guilt, 
That an Almighty wrath. 
Those burning dungeons built, 
And bound with snakes their path. 

It was his glory to reveal, 

That he put them out of his pale! 

The rogues think not they get their due 
And plead, with an unblushing hue, 

That they are clear of blame. 

Since their will was not free; 

For he had made their frame 

Sinful by his decree. 
Hear th' answer which he doth return: 
Foredoom'd you sinn'd, foredoom'd now burn! 

But sinners are not th' only ones 
Of whom I hear the hollow moans. 

Infants be there, whose cries 

Like a heart melting song 

Thrilling, to my ears rise. 

Poor things, not a span long, 



[ 20 ] 

How they do writhe on glowing coals. 
God had not mark'd for heav'n their souls! 

Now turn we from that spectacle, 
Things are on earth as amiable. 

To seize a father's wealth, 

A monster leaves his rest 

And comes to plunge by stealth 

A dagger in his breast. 
Think you that he is guilty ? No, 
No more than punch is in the show! 

All working fate made him its tool, 
And to the deed inur'd his soul. 

That system hath no flaws: 

Freedom, morality. 

Justice and human laws; 

Are nought but vanity. 
This I believe, and yet a Christian am, 
At least such one as he I will not name. 



On reading the following line of Kirke White's monologue 
on his oion approaching death. 

Fifty years hence and who will hear of Henry ? Oh ! none ! 

Who will hear of thee, askest thou, sweet bard? 
— To die without a name! That fate were hard; 
For when thy delicate and youthful frame 
Had sunk, consum'd by genius' bright flame; 
Some noble meed was due from righteous heav'n. 
But be appeas'd illustrious shade. — 'Tis giv'n 
Thy name shall never die. 



[ 21 1 

Lo! yonder waves thy gentle Clifton grove. 

It sighs o'er Bateman's ill requited love; 

While dreary shrieking ghosts glide 'mongst its trees, 

Or solemnly career on midnight breeze. 

— The soft emotions which thy lyre creates 

Ope for thee immortality's bright gates. 

Thy name shall never die. 

From the blue vault, the trembling queen of night 
Pours silently a flood of silver light. 
With mellow beam she hails thy casement high. 
While thought and fancy, musing, linger by 
To pay their bard a tribute of regret. 
Think not the world can such as thee forget. 
Thy name shall never die. 

Thy bahj wailing on a fainting breast. 
Embitters so a guilty mother's rest! 
It makes, tho' innocent of its sad fate; 
The inmost fibre of my heart vibrate. 
Could I forget the sweetly thrilling pain? 
Ha! do not say thou wooedst the muse in vain. 
Thy name shall never die. 

Some of the hints from thy abundance dropt. 
Like tender twigs by pruning" iron lopt, 
Made others rich. Thou pointedst to the glade 
And all the magic of thy Sherwood's shade. 
— They work'd the mine, because thou show'dst the 
And settedst in array romance's train. [vein 

Thy name shall never die. 



[ 22 ] 

While Lordly bards to court a world obscene, 
In loosest song describe each wicked scene; 
While heart-sear'd blasphemy astounds the age, 
Through many a reckless and base tinsel page; 
Thou, stainless bee, on fair and fragrant flow'ts 
Sippest pure dew, for thy ambrosial bow'rs. 
Thy name shall never die. 



THE OA'XL.—A^r ALLEGORY. 

In a cleft, on bold Etna's side, 
A lofty oak had rear'd its head; 
Its verdant boughs' majestic pride 
The sylvan monarch gladly spread; 
Unconscious of the dangers threat'ning round, 
From fickle winds, or from unsteady ground. 

Beauty to tow'ring height was join'd. 
Round its stem many a creeping plant 
Luxuriantly its tendrils twin'd; 
And the tree hop'd that Gods would grant 
Protection to its old and sinew'd arms. 
Hung as they were with parasitic charms. 

An acorn, from its high top blown, 

Within the verge of its deep shade 

Had to a little sapling grown. 

The tender plant, in lowly grade, 

Its parent stock petition'd for sunshine; 

For the foul creepers made it sadly pine. 



[ 23 ] 

It thus address'd its pow'rful sire: 

Those vines, which 'mongst your branches play, 

To stifle you do all conspire. 

Tho' in festoons, or tassels gay. 

They wave as ornament: ha, yet beware 

And fear their false, their treacherous glare. 

From the ground no support they draw, 

But darting their roots in your bark. 

Where'er it offers any flaw. 

They aim at your core as a mark. 

From me they hide yon' glorious orb of day 

And rob me of its vivifying rayv 

I can't, in sycophantic mood. 
Drag myself on the humid ground 
And go to creep around your wood; 
Yet in me something may be found 
Well worthy your regard; did not my size 
Unhappily conceal it from your eyes. 

I can, when grown, fend off the blast 

Which ofl assails your reverend boughs, 

And strives to lay your honors waste; 

Or when the mountain's nodding brows 

Shake all 'neath us, my roots with yours entwin'd. 

Perhaps shall stand the foes 'gainst you combin'd. 

Hark! on the mountain's smoking top, 
The hollow Craters' dreadful roar 
Proclaims that fire in show'r can drop 
On your fair leaves; below, the shore 



[ 24 ] 

Responsive howls, t' announce a coming gale 
Which can sweep you into the yawning vale. 

The sapling, thus right eloquent 
Did strive to move its father oak, 
Which on vain glory only bent, 
Minded not what the young twig spoke; 
But bade it hush, and in that gloomy spot, 
Without the least complaint in peace to rot. 

Meanwhile, a sturdy peasant came, 

Who had his axe's handle lost. 

The little sappling's stunted frame 

Furnished him with what he wish'd most. 

He made an helve of it, and on the oak 

He fell; with many a frightful gashing stroke. 

From this, proud ones, a lesson take. 

And learn to fear, lest genius, crush'd 

By favoritism; at last awake, 

Tho' for a time it may be hush'd. 

— It may shake you. A twig which we despise, 

Supplies oft by strength what it wants in size. 



THE HAZEL tTLlll^.— A J^ ALLEGORY: 

In rocky wilds, a hazel tree 

Did gently wave its glossy head. 

Amongst its leaves the morning bee 

Humm'd to the breeze which round them play'd. 



[ 25 ] 

The glist'ning pearls of balmy dew, 
Shone on the boughs and softly danc'd 

On the smooth bark, as the wind blew. 
And through the sky the sun advanc'd. 

Within its shade a lovely dove 

With confidence had built her nest. 

All the day long she cooed her love. 
With peace at once and comfort blest. 

In this abode of innocence, 

Remov'd far from noise, or from strife, 
Possest of decent competence; 

Well might the dove have spent her life. 

But all her happiness is past. 

Her tree was struck one fatal day: 
The bleak northwind at one rude blast 

Uprooted it, and she flew 'way. 

Farewell, fair dove, thy hazel tree 
No more shall wave its gentle top. 

Upon its leaves no more the bee 
Shall come to sip the honey drop. 

Thy pretty nest so round and soft 
Lies scatter'd by the shiver'd trunk. 

Mourn, poor exile, but stand aloft, 
Thy youth's support in woes is sunk. 



[ 26 ] 
AN ODE TO HUNGER. 



In vain the Epicure's benignant lay 
Points out voluptuousness' flow'ry way, 
And tries to lull my anxious breast 
To sweet and balmy rest; 
There is in me a stirring pow'r, 
Which at that soothing hour, 
Suddenly rushes on my plans to foil, 
And urges me to trouble and to toil. 

'This hunger, poetry's severe hand-maid, 

By her stern rule the heav'nly virgin sway'd. 

Instead of lolling in green bow'rs, 

Or culling odorous flow'rs 

Through rugged paths in heedless borne, 

And, scathed by the thorn; 

Dyes with her rosy blood her lonely haunt. 

Or sits her down, in tears, pale, faint and gaunt. 

Yet, oft, have I before her altar kneU 

And there, the flame of inspiration felt. 

— Art thou to bards a foe, or friend ? 

A goddess, or a fiend? 

Say hunger; or were thy stings dire 

Temper'd in hallow'd fire ? 

And did the righteous Gods above, deccee 

That genius should be rul'd by penury > 

Yes, Providence made want, the nurse of worth 
And when it sent fair poesy on earth, 



[ 27 ] 

Poverty foUow'd, close behind, 

To goad her on design'd. — 

— Before thy pow'r I meekly bow, 

But on me softly blow, 

Dread Goddess; let not thy pangs stimulate 

Too far. Let not starvation seal my fate. 

Pity a bard who owns thy birth sublime 

And in thy honor strings the chiming rhyme. 

Thy kind forbearance he will pay 

By an harmonious lay. 

But lo! what pains my stomach gnaw 

And irritate my maw! 

Cease hunger, cease; suspend thy pangs so fell 

Or I'll recant and say thou art from h-11. 



THE DYING SINNER. 

A FRAGMEJVT. 

What pangs, in death, assail the sinful breast; 
When to its contemplation nought appears 
From which relief can flow; but rather rage 
And fell despair, in whelming flood, rush on, 
To blot away the faintest beam of hope 
To which the agonizing wretch had clung. 

Amidst dissolving nature's stinging pains, 
His mind is full strong wrath divine to bear 
And to anticipate hereafl;er woes. 
-=-^- — -Sad memory evokes with magic wand 



[ 28 ] 

The shadows of the past. Around his couch, 
Spectre-hke they throng, darting forth revenge. 
— The orphan's gentle form seems to demand 
His patrimony scant by base arts wrung: 
He shows his wasted limbs all 'numb'd with cold, 
His bosom which fell hunger emaciates 
And points to th' offspring of rapacity, 
Who clad in silk and purple radiant walk, 
Proudly decked with the substance of the poor. 
— The victim of his lust, whom his vile craft 
Seduc'd from an indulgent mother's arms; 
Now totters forward, squalid, abject, lost. 
Mean dangling rags declare her poverty, 
Her eyes have lost the pride of innocence; 
Without expression they roll 'neath her brows, 
And yet they can shed an accusing tear. 
While her arms press seduction's shrivell'd babe 
Whose little lungs can hardly wail for food. 

His dearest friend, whom for a pique he slew 

Bleeding appears, and with inverted hand 

Points to the wound by which his life escap'd. 

The spirting red drops fall on his sear'd heart 

And there, like glowing sparks, burn to the quick. 

Through the shield of insensibility. 

All the forgotten horrors of his life, 

Ev'ry excess of his past youthful days; 

Muster, like a strong army in array, 

To drench his fainting soul with bitterness. 

— If to the present he turn his dim eyes; 

What a grief overpow'rs his sinking heart, 

For that wealth which escapes his covetous grasp, 

That gold so dearly bought by crimes, those walls 



[ 29 ] 

On which subservient art with hireling skill, 

Exhausted her pow'rs, to win his applause, 

Those implements of Luxury, refin'd 

With ceaseless toil, to soothe his vacant hours, 

That deep obsequiousness and flattering awe 

Which menials bore to his capricious will; 

Sweet domination's zest on which the mind 

Revels, as on intoxicating draught. 

— He must leave all; all is now snatch'd away 

By cruel death. Lo! the grim phantom comes. 

At his approach his magic withering breath 

Blasts all the fairy visions of this life. 

And throws on vice's robe, a sable hue, 

To arm remorse, still with more poignant stings. 

In frightful majesty, besides his prey, 
The king of terrors stands and horrid grins, 
While his dry fleshless fingers, on his scythe 
Impatient rattle, and his sunken eyes 
Shine in their sockets with a gleam of joy. 
Now whither shall the wretched victim fly? 
Is there no mercy, no compassion left ? 
See how he quakes in agonizing pangs. 
— The mystic veil which hides futurity 
Is lifted up by fiendish hands. In vain 
The fainting wretch recoils, fate urges on 
And bids him view the bitter vengeance near. 
— Above, his God enthron'd in majesty. 
And clad with might, awaits his dying groan. 
Glitter in his right hand his burning shafts. 
Eager to strike, they shoot forth drops of wrath, 
(Anticipation of far direr woes) 

Which on the reprobate's head, scorching fall 

3* 



[ 30 ] 

J.O season his soul for immortal pains. 

Angels shed tears at the tremendous sight * 

And hide their faces with their glitt'ring wings; 

For, what created thing could look on God 

When anger lights up his all-piercing eye? 

— Below, the vaults of endless woe yawn wide, 

And living flames with thousand curling spires 

Horrible gape to clasp the sinner's frame. 

How many partners of his guilt, there, weep 

And gnash their teeth and curse their fatal birth, 

The womb that bore them and the mother's breast 

That did support their helpless infancy. 

They crave annihilation as a boon. 

But tho' sad it is by just heav'n denied. 

And to their lamentations, a stern voice 

Answers, by thundering forth. Eternity! 

Eternity! Whilst with th' appalling shout 

The fiery pitt and glowing roofs resound, 

In the full phrenzy of despair they writhe 

And toss themselves aloft; but cruel fiends 

Quell their vain efforts and swift hurl them back. 

O'er them they hiss and pour their venom dire 

And fan the furnace with their blacken'd wings. 

— Theirs is the only joy that hell affords. 

(The solace of damnation others' pains!) — 

— And that is then my lot, the sinner cries? 

These horrors are my portion? God is just; 

Replies a secret voice: 'tis Satan's self, 

Who grasps his soul and whispers thou art mine. — 



[ 31 ] 
A Night in the Woods of Louisiana, 

A FRAGMENT. 

The silvery moon is iiding high, 

Through the bright azure of the sky; 

In gauzy flakes, the white clouds pil'd 

Around her rest, in radiance mild, 

While their transparent, pearly hue 

Appears to musing fancy's view. 

Spread as a bed of snowy down. 

For her to roll more smoothly down, 

Her brightness has eclips'd each star. 

In vain they glimmer from afar; 

They see their feeble twinkling light 

Overpow'rd by the queen of night. 

Which pours a flood of mellow beams 

O'er fields, o'er meads, o'er woods and streams. 

The winds are hush'd, not the least breath 

Ruffles the smoothness of her path. 

And on she goes in majesty, 

Untill th' impatient wakeful eye 

Sees her wane through the portals of the west 

Which open fly t' admit her to her rest 

— Then vanishes the fairest scene, 

That was by fancy's eye e'er seen. 

The Mississipi's vast expanse 

No longer does in ripples glance. 

Nor, bright, reflect th' aslant shot rays. 

From eddies and projecting bays. 



[ 32 ] 

The lofty trees which nature's hand 

Planted in that enchanted land, 

Now spread in vain their verdant arms: 

Darkness has mantled o'er their charms. 

Her gloomy veils unconscious hide 

The tall magnolia's blooming pride. 

The cypress tree of deepest green, 

For death-like' scenes appropriate screen. 

No longer sees the murky wave 

Which doth its highly ribb'd foot lave, 

And funeral mosses from each bough 

In vain their waving streamers throw. 

To scare th' attendants of the passing sail 

With show of ghosts carreering in the gale. 

— All is now dark it is the hour 

When beasts of prey put forth their pow'r. 

The panther leaves his drear abode 

Bounds from the brake and pants for blood. 

Resounding far along the stream 

For succour calls his wailing scream; 

But bloody woes the man betide 

Who, pitying, leaves his still fire side 

To carry help. — The monster's claw 

Soon buries him within his maw. 

— The surly bear, with careless trot, 

Lofty, surveys each grassy spot; 

But as he comes, the timid fawns 

Fly nimbly through the open lawns. 

With hunger torn he snuffs the air 

And growls with voice so deep and drear 

That all the forest rings around. 

— The crocodile, with snuffling sound, 



[ 33 1 

Awkward, climbs up the slipp'ry strand 

And prowling goes along the sand. » 

His frightful jaws distended wide, 

Harsh grinning shake at ev'ry stride 

Ready to crush the slumb'ring prey 

Which he may find along his way; 

And oft he tosses round his tail 

Like an immense and pond'rous flail 

To sweep what is within its verge 

And when succesful leaps i' th' surge. 

Amidst the cries and sullen roars, 

Which sound from woods and from steep shores. 

Though desolation rules the hour; 

What heart shall not adore the pow'r 

Of the Almighty Lord? 



Ji crevasse in the levee of the Mississpi. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Thus, through the sloping fields which thy flood laves, ^ 

Rapid Mechassabea; with mighty roar. 

When prostrate lies thy artificial shore. 

Thy foaming waters tumble, sweep and tear, 

Rivalling occean in their mad carreer. 

The lofty mansion shakes on tott'ring walls 

While surges lash the glory of its halls. 

The spicy groves from whence the balmy gale 

Wafted sweet fragrance to the passing sail 



[ 34 J 

Now swim uprooted, in vast eddies whirl'd. 
A guiltless prey to swift destruction hnrl'd, 
The slender skipping deer, the generous steed 
In vain against the stream put forth their speed. 
The patient ox, in vain, toils in the deep. 
And meekness cannot save the timid sheep. 
By furious billows, in confusion toss'd, 
Bellowing, neighing, bleating; all are lost. 
On Desolations brink, weak puny man 
His numbers brings th' extent of woe to scan; 
But frail his Skill and impotent his arm 
To conjure off from him the wild alarm. 



GRACE 

Before the anniversary dinner of a Charitable Society. 

Bless'd be the meat, bless'd be the drink 
And pray that none of us may shrink 
From charitable duties to the poor; 
Until the present dinner be quite o'er. 



EPITAPH 

Of a Gentleman buried by the side of his Wife. 

On thee, fond nature had her gifts bestow'd. 

From thy lips, in soft stream, persuasion flow'd; 

Endow'd with genius, of name undefil'd. 

To thee, the world with hopes enchanting smil'd. 

But cut off in thy prime by fatal doom. 

Thy mortal form now moulders in the tomb. 



[ 35 ] 

Yet, though from thee, the scenes of life are fled. 
And dust has claiinM its own; amongst the dead 
Thou hast a solace faith points to the day, 
When youth shall clothe again thy slumbering clay. 
Near thee shall rise she who receiv'd thy faith) 
Thy bride in life she is thy bride in death. 



EPITAPH 

Of a Lady who died broken hearted at the loss of her husband. 
When the spouse thou hadst blest with youthful faith, 
Torn from thy arms by unrelenting death, 
Sank in the yawning grave; a venom'd dart 
Was planted in thy tender bleeding heart. 
Grief like a gnawing worm sat in thy mind, 
Until thy fainting form its life resign'd 
And sorrow made thee partner of his tomb. 
Gentle is now thy sleep, death hath no gloom 
Nor terrors, that can move the spotless souls, 
'Tis such as thine that reach the starry poles. 
And tho' men may weep o'er thy mortal spoil, 
Still at the sight of thee the angels smile. 



SPITAPH 

From a Widow to her Husband. 
A widow's tears on thy cold marble shed, 
Cannot recall thee from amongst the dead; 
Yet Heav'n born faith points to that happy day 
When immortality shall clothe again thy clay. 
Oh may she, then, arising from the dust 
Enter with thee the mansions of the just. 



/^^^ 



.^^• 



[ 36 ] 

EPITAPH 

0/ a Man, who commanded his body to be dissected and his 
skeleton presented to a Museum. 

Under this white stone which is hollow, 
There lie scraps of a clever fellow 
Who puzzled his reflecting mind 
To do good after his death to mankind 
— Physicians were heirs to his bones. 
(They are those which our Museum owns) 
He left the worms what he had next at stake 
— 'Tis here beneath, — a fat beef-steak! 



MATHEMATICKS.— A pun. 

A Kentuckian lay sick a bed, 
A teacher by keen hunger led 
Came to bespeak boys for his school, 
And promis'd to keep rigorous rule. 
He said: he taught orthography, 
The use of globes, geography, 
Astronomy with mathematics, 
And even went as far as ethics. 

Taking him for a cunning thief 
The farmer was hard of belief 
And sneering at his Mathematicks, 
I was acquainted with Tom Maticks^ 
But I ne'er knew indeed; quoth he: 
That MaixcSj whom you call Mathe. 



LBAp'l 



